


It's Better if You Do

by Teh_FemaleMoriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst, BAMF John Watson, Based On A Panic! At The Disco Song, F/M, I guess this would be a song fic?, I wrote this before S3 and didn't put it up till now, Infidelity, John is sneaky and clever, John loves Mary but can't stay with her, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, One World Government, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sherlock is not a blushing virgin in this, Sherlock loves him for it, Some Fluff, That part's canon, This kinda spiraled, kind of a crime fic, only not really?, singer!john, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 11:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5827300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teh_FemaleMoriarty/pseuds/Teh_FemaleMoriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Global War, the world came to peace under one government. This government banned clubs of any kind, bars, certain songs on the radio, and certain films on television. This ban eventually reached beyond its limits to songs and films not sanctioned by the government, as well as instituted a curfew. Anything under this ban was either burned or closed down. Anyone associated with banned items is arrested and tried for treason. Police brutality in these circumstances is ignored by the government.</p>
<p>Enter John Watson, an ex-army doctor who's been down on his luck trying to find a job. Until he meets up with his former CO, who offers him a job as a singer in his illegal club. With no other options, he finds himself agreeing to the job.</p>
<p>And then in the midst of a case involving crimelords, ban conspiracies, and one gorgeous consulting detective. What's a guy to do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Somewhere Downtown

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably going to be crap, I am sorry! This is the second of three fics I've found in the depths of my laptop and have decided to post. Third one to be up shortly! Thanks for reading!

"Don't you love me anymore?" Mary asked from the stool by the kitchen counter, crossing her legs and leaning across the counter towards her husband. John adjusted his tie and sighed. "Don't talk like that darling, of course I love you!" he stated as he smoothed out his suit jacket. "Then why don't you stay home at night anymore, huh?! Why do you go out all the time? Every night, John!" The ex-army doctor sighed again and turned to face his wife. "Because I have to work to afford everything! I have to go to work tonight so I can pay for your new wardrobe when the bill comes around, pay the bills for this dumpy flat, and pay for food for the week. You see what I'm getting at, right?"  
Mary frowned and made her way towards John as he ventured back into the bedroom for his wallet and house keys. "You know something? I think you're lying to me," she said outright, causing John to whirl around. Mary was always blunt with him and he loved her for it, but sometimes her get-to-the-point attitude caught him off guard. She crossed her arms and continued. "I think you're lying. I think you either have a bit on the side -which I can solve right away, darling, don't you worry- or you and your army mates keep going to those illegal clubs or something like that." John snorted and shoved his wallet into his suit pocket. "I'm not risking my skin and yours going to an illegal club. I'm going to work and you know it, Mary." Mary frowned once more and looked away. "I know. Don't worry, I won't wait up for you. Go on, now. Go provide for us." She smiled and pecked him on the cheek before he left and John thought nothing of her words as he shrugged on his overcoat.  
  
Truth be told, John wasn't telling the truth. Yes, he was going to an illegal club, but not for the reasons that Mary accused him of. He was going to work like he said. His friend and ex-CO, James Sholto, owned an illegal club in the middle of town that doubled as a coffee shop during the day. They'd met up for lunch and Sholto let it slip that he was looking for a singer for the club since the old one got arrested. At first, John wasn't too keen on being in a club that could be turned over at any moment, but work was scarce and Sholto assured him that the threat of being discovered was non-existent. "He's skipped town without giving me up for quite a bill. C'mon John," James insisted. "You've always had that golden voice and I'm in desperate need of a singer. The players are people you know, and we wear masks to ensure that no one knows who you are, though the band may guess since you were all in the service together."  
  
"I don't know, James, it's risky. I don't want Mary to know. She'd have a fit if she found out. I need to be sure that I won't be caught or involved." James nodded. "You have my word, John."  
  
So here John found himself in front of the back door of the store for the eighth night in a row, knocking thrice on the metal door and giving a security guard -who was much bigger than any coffee shop needed, he might add- the night's codeword. He was handed a mask upon entering and checked his coat with the woman at the front counter. "Thank you for coming again, Mr W. Boss wants you on in fifteen." John nodded as he handed her his coat. "Can I take your gloves, Mr W?" The singer shook his head as he stuffed the gloves into his pants pocket and slipped on the gold and red mask handed to him. "Thanks, Miss."  
  
James greeted him with a smile and a firm handshake. "I'm glad you're still coming to join me, W," he said as he beckoned a cocktail waitress over. "Drink?" John gave him a look as Sholto took a daiquiri off of the tray offered. "No thanks, Boss. The wife's already looking to skin me for being out every night; don't need to fuel that fire. Maybe next time." Sholto took a sip and nodded. "Of course, of course. All right, well, you're on in a few, so I'll let you get to it!" John smiled as his friend left to sit in the audience. He stripped out of his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Most of the band members were other soldiers and army buddies that served with James when they were deployed, so they had the same taste of music as John did. Rarely did they argue over what songs would be played that night.

It was mostly old strip music and dance songs that would play on the radio before the Revamp of the World when everything went tits up and the world was forced to enter under a single government. Clubs like this, bars, hookah dens, all of it was banned, leaving nothing but Church and lunch cafes for people to meet up and hang out. Nothing fun, no more good music, not like the kind John had to scrap from his fuzziest childhood memories to sing every night. Not that John minded having to do so. He appreciated the pay and the fun, and there was something about the thrill of danger singing at a club that could be found and turned over by the police at any given moment.

"So what is it tonight, gents? And, lady?" Sarah rolled her eyes and spun one of her drumsticks in her fingers. "Mostly Panic, but some Arctic Monkeys and an old lounge song by Nina Simone," the guitarist, Mike, responded. John whistled and adjusted his mask. "Nina Simone. I haven't heard her since...I can't recall. Which song?"

" 'Feeling Good'." John smiled. His mother used to sing that to him though he couldn't remember a specific time. He knew the lyrics well, though, from snippets of memories. "Second to last. Let's start with a Panic song, yeah? 'But it's Better if You Do'?"  
  
The band members agreed. "I didn't think you were going to be singing tonight," Mike said as he tuned his guitar. "I wasn't until Boss called and said that he needed me to. Shame, 'cause I was really looking forward to a night in with the missus, you know?" John replied, avoiding using any names as per the request of Sholto. Mike nodded and they took their places on stage before the curtains drew. John scanned the crowd and smiled. Then he sang.  
  
 _Now, I'm of consenting age to be forgetting you in a cabaret somewhere downtown where a burlesque queen may even ask my name._  
  
James smiled at him from between two beautiful masked women. He smiled back slightly as he continued singing.  
  
 _As she sheds her skin on stage, I'm seated and sweating to a dance song on the club's P.A. The strip joint veteran sits two away, smirking between dignified sips of his dignified...peach and lime...daiquiri..._  
  
He's sure to look directly at the club owner then, causing his audience to laugh and the ex-CO to raise his drink to him.  
  
 _And isn't this exactly where you'd like me?! I'm exactly where you'd like me, you know, praying for love in a lap dance, and paying in naivety. OH! Isn't this exactly where you'd like me, I'm exactly where you'd like me, you know, praying for love in a lap dance and paying in naivety! Oh,_ oh oh _woah,_ oh oh _oh!  
_  
A man, tall and unearthly graceful, walked in just as the chorus ended, catching John's attention and holding it. He's in a form-fitting suit tailored just for him, and his grey eyes piercing behind his silvery mask. He smiled at John slightly and the singer was sure to smile back.  
  
 _Well I'm afraid that I, well I may have faked it and I wouldn't be caught dead d-dead d-dead d-dead in this place! Well I'm afraid that I, well that's right! I may have faked it! And I wouldn't be caught dead in this place!_  
  
The stranger crossed his legs and seemed to study John as he sang, which would have unnerved him had it not been for the electricity running laps in his veins. Something was going to happen. The on-stage dancers were too far from the edge of the stage, and the bassist looked like he was going to make a run for it at any moment. Something was going to happen.  
  
 _And isn't this exactly where you'd like me? I'm exactly where you'd like me,_  I _know._  
  
The man in the silver mask looked alarmed at John's change of lyrics, giving away what was about to happen. As soon as the song was going to end, the place would be crowded with police. They'd all be arrested.  
  
 _Praying for love in a lap dance, and paying in naivety! Oh, isn't this exactly where you'd like me, I'm exactly where you'd like me, you know, praying for love in a lap dance and paying in naivety, OH!_  
  
He blinked twice at Sholto, who nodded and excused himself from the two women he was with. He moved to what would be the front of the shop and left without another word. He knew John and the band would be able to get out all right, they were trained in the military and could handle themselves should someone try them. But he was just going to leave those two women to be arrested?  
  
 _Well I'm afraid that I, well I may have faked it and I wouldn't be caught dead d-dead d-dead d-dead in this place! Well I'm afraid that I, well that's right! I may have faked it! And I wouldn't be caught dead in this place!_  
  
One of the women got up and left as well, leaving her friend behind. People were crowding the bar for another drink since the cocktail waitress wasn't around. Someone was in on it. Someone turned over the club and warned a handful of people that the police were coming.  
  
 _And isn't this exactly where you'd like me? I'm exactly where you'd like me, you know, praying for love in a lap dance and paying in naivety. OH, isn't this exactly where you'd like me?! I'm exactly where you'd like me, you know, praying for love in a lap dance and paying in naivety!_  
  
 _Praying for love and paying in naivety! Praying for love and paying in naivety, oh!_  
  
The song ended and the room burst as swarms of police pushed through and grabbed whoever they could reach. The handsome stranger hopped onto the stage and went for John, who dodged and made for the backstage exit. He saw Mike rub the back of his neck and sigh. The stranger said something that sounded like a low rumble and Mike gestured to backstage and replied. Mike was the rat, Mike was in on the bust?  
  
John ran for the exit and barely made it out because he grabbed his coat to make sure that he wouldn't look suspicious once he was out. He used his gloves to take off the mask and threw it in a garbage can by Lexington, which was the wrong direction to his house, and then went home again. He'd be sure to ask Jane where she stashed his coat if she had made it out. His main concern was being caught by the stranger whom he couldn't keep his mind off of. The man was clever and likely an officer, but what connection did he have with Mike?  
  
John sighed and shook his head as he hailed a taxi to drive him home. Mary hadn't waited up for him, but she did leave his dinner in the oven and a note telling him to be home sooner some nights. "Not to worry," he breathed. If Sholto didn't get caught, he'd be having words with the club owner. And Mike. Definitely Mike. "John? Is that you?"  
John hummed and smiled at his wife in the dark. "Won't you join me for dinner?" he asked as he took a bite of the still warm potatoes. Mary leaned against the doorway and smiled back at him. "And then you'll join me for dessert?" she offered. "Yes, ma'am!" John said in a joking manner, though he meant it. He wound up skipping dinner and joined Mary in bed. As he held her afterwards, he silently hoped he'd be able to get a real job. One that'd allow him to be home more nights, and one that was safer. For both his and Mary's sake.


	2. I May Have Faked It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is visited by the UGP, puts Sholto's second offer on the back burner, and agrees to meet with the strange character that is Sherlock Holmes for lunch and possibly a job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't beta'd or britpicked at all, so apologies for any mistakes you find.

It’d been over a week since John barely escaped from the police raid at Sholto’s club. James had offered him a new job as a singer at a different club he owned, which John had politely declined for now, and Mary was thrilled that her husband was home more often, especially at night. “I’m glad you’ve finally come to your senses and stayed,” she’d told him the first night he remained home. “It took you long enough.” He had smiled and kissed her cheek fondly. “That it did. I hope you don’t think I don’t love you anymore. Because I do, Mary. Honestly and wholey, I do.” He’d even begun scouring for jobs again during the day.

 

So the last thing the former illegal singer had expected after so long was a grey-haired detective asking after him. He was reading the newspaper in the other room, enjoying the tea he’d made earlier when Mary answered the door. “Hello, ma’am. I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade, and I was wondering if your husband was home. We have some questions for him.”

 

The first thing John did was check the space in his headboard to make sure his also illegal gun from when he was still in the army was locked and hidden away safely. The second thing he did was finish his tea; there was no need to look suspicious if he did nothing wrong. “He’s in the bedroom. I’ll fetch him if you like,” Mary offered. “Actually, we were wondering if we could come in.”

 

“I don’t think so, Detecti-”

 

“It’s all right, Mary, let ‘em through. Care for a cuppa?” John asked, playing the part. The DI and his partner entered with a polite smile. “I’m okay, ta, but Sergeant Donovan might want one,” the grey-haired detective stated as he took a seat in the sitting room and gestured to the woman with him. Donovan remained standing. Their black wristbands with the United Government symbol on them made him as uncomfortable as it would anyone.

 

“We would like to ask you a few questions about your whereabouts a few nights ago, Mr Watson,” the DI said once the tea was made and everyone was present.

 

“Doctor Watson,” Mary corrected before her husband could as she sat beside him and took one of his hands. John smiled and faced the officers. “You’ll have to be more specific than that, though for the most part I’ve been home with Mary.” Sergeant Donovan made a face. “Nine days ago, where were you that night?” she asked. Mary sat up straighter and looked directly at the Sergeant. She apparently didn’t like her tone. “If you must know, detectives, he was home in bed with me.” Lestrade’s lips pressed in a thin line, trying not to smile as the Sergeant furrowed her brow and then coloured. “Do you have anyone who can corroborate this alibi?” Mary grinned viciously. “I’m sure the neighbours have some complaints to file, if you want their statements.”

 

John just squeezed his wife’s hand and smiled with some semblance of innocence. Lestrade, however amused, wasn’t convinced. “What do you know about the club ‘Swing’, Doctor?” John furrowed his brow. Quite a bit, actually. “Aren’t clubs illegal? I believe so, last time I checked. I don’t know anything about clubs other than the Ban, detectives,” he said apologetically. “Are you sure?” the other asked. “You frequent where the club is.” It was Mary’s turn to frown. “Where is that?”

 

Donovan checked her notepad. “ ‘A Sip Abroad’ cafe, a few blocks down the street.” John smiled politely. “I usually have lunch there every Wednesday with an old army buddy. I get the Chicken and Tomato pasta and a tall glass of orange juice every time. You can ask the people who work there. Unless...the club was based inside the…” John swallowed thickly and let some of his nervousness slip into his expression. “Jesus. Just goes to show you never know, I guess...Jesus.”

 

Lestrade grimaced and looked at him sympathetically. “I get it, mate. Well,” he said, standing up and pulling a card from his UG wristband and handing it to John. “If you have any more information, please, call. Thanks for the tea.”

 

As soon as the door shut, John exhaled deeply through his nose. “Jesus. You don’t think Sholto’s involved, do you?” Mary asked, taking her husband’s hand in both of hers. “God, I hope not,” he answered honestly. To be caught and arrested by the UGP meant to be executed. If you were lucky. There were stories of the more serious offenders being ‘re-educated’ to ‘set an example’. They were never really entirely sane after that. John remembered his sister and her wife. He remembered when they came home, hating and shouting and…

 

“I’m going out,” he announced as he moved to the room to get dressed. “Where?” Mary asked, worry tracing her voice. “Out. Somewhere. I should be home soon, I promise. I just need...I need some air.” Mary smiled and pecked him on the cheek before he left and handed him his cane. “Be safe, love,” she told him. Once he was outside, he just began walking towards who knows where.

 

It was in his dazed walking that he almost didn’t hear a familiar voice calling for him. “John! John Watson!” Looking up, he saw Mike Stamford smiling brightly and beckoning him over. “Mike?” Keeping his illogical temper down, he smiled and sat beside Mike, shaking his hand. “Mike Stamford, it’s been an age!”

 

They talked like normal friends about Mike’s kids and his job teaching kids at Bart’s and drank coffee. “Last I heard you were in Afghanistan getting shot at. What happened?” John smiled bitterly. “I got shot,” he said simply. Mike winced. “Sorry, mate. For all of that.” His tone implied more than being shot, and John was quick to forgive him. “It’s fine. Having a hard time finding work, what with my skill set and dodgey shoulder and all.” Not to mention the fact that he had a job with good pay that was quickly squashed. “I think I’ve got a job for you, actually,” Mike said with a smile. “Please. Who’d want to work with me?” His friend laughed outright at that. “What? What’s so funny?”

 

“You know you’re the second person to say that to me today?”

 

“Who was the first?”

 

And that was how John found himself walking with Mike through the halls of his old med school. Everything looked newer, updated with the latest tech. What St. Bartholomew’s was doing was what the UG considered ‘noble’, so they had the best technology always. “Bit different from my day,” he said as they walked into the lab. “Tell me about it,” Mike agreed. “Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.” a deep and rumbling baritone asked from the figure hunched over the microscope who was dressed to the nines. “What’s wrong with the landline?” Mike questioned.

 

“I prefer to text.”

 

Mike smiled and sarcastically replied, “Sorry, it’s in my coat,” like it’s a personal joke between the two of them. John searched his pocket for his phone and offered it to the stranger. “Here, use mine.” The man looked up, surprised. “Oh. Thank you.” He stood to get it and John realised that either he underestimated the stranger's height, or he overestimated his own because the raven-haired mobile-less man was tall. “This is an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike introduced. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

 

John was taken aback and looked at Mike, who gave him a knowing smile. “Sorry?” The man looked up at him from the phone briefly and John’s face dropped. The night the club was turned over...he was there. The man in the silver mask. “Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked again. “Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you-?” A girl came in and interrupted him by handing the man his coffee. “Ah, Molly coffee! Thank you.” He handed a thoroughly confused John back his cell and took the coffee from Molly. “What happened to the lipstick?”

 

“It...ah...it wasn’t working for me,” she said awkwardly.

 

“Really? I thought it was a big improvement; your mouth’s too small now.”

 

Oh. He was one of those kind of people. Posh prat? Molly frowned and nodded as she left. What a prick. “How do you feel about sporadic conversation?” John looked at Mike and then the man. “Excuse me?” The posh prick sighs like being in the room is such a huge burden. “I work with the police and say what I think out loud most of the time. Would that bother you? Coworkers should know the other’s worst working habits, I believe.” John shook his head, utterly bemused. “Who said anything about coworkers?”

 

The man shrugged on his greatcoat and looked at John with a bored but placated look on his face. “I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to work with and now he’s here with an old friend who’s been recently invalidated or forced into therapy. Wasn’t a difficult leap,” he said as he wrapped his scarf around his neck. “Yeah, how did you know about me being in the military?” The man ignores him and continues with whatever he was going to say. “There’s a case I’m working on that I could use a medical eye on. Mike’s too busy and Molly doesn’t like me all that much. Meet me at ‘Speedy’s Cafe’ and we’ll talk about it.”

 

John glares daggers at Mike and the teacher just smiled smugly. “Sorry, gotta dash!” the stranger called on his way to the door, catching John’s attention once more. “Left my riding crop in the mortuary.” John shifted his weight and shook his head again. “Is that it?” John asked. The man stopped and turned to face him, looking interested. Something behind those electric eyes screamed with excitement. “Is that what?” John gestured. “We’ve only just met and you’re inviting me to work with you? We don’t know a thing about each other, I don’t know where Speedy’s is; I don’t even know your name.”

 

Those startlingly coloured eye narrow and rake over him before locking with his own eyes. “I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. You’re recently married yourself, and you’ve put on seven pounds because of it. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid. That’s enough to go on, I think. And I invited you to lunch; I’ve yet to see if you are willing to work with me.” John was taken aback, breathless and insecure. He looked down at his cane and hated it right that moment. The man gilded out of the room only to look back in for a moment. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.” He winked and clicked his teeth at John and smiled. “Afternoon,” Sherlock called behind him.

 

“Yeah, he’s always like that.”

 

John thanked Mike for the coffee and the job opportunity before heading home for the day. “How was your walk, darling?” Mary asked when she heard the door shut. She was in the kitchen fixing lunch for them. “It was...good. Interesting. I have a better job opportunity, actually. I’m meeting them for lunch to see if it’s actually something I want to do,” her told her as he sat down at the counter. “Need help?” Mary shook her head and smiled at him. “I’m glad you have an interview! Let’s hope all goes well, yeah?”

 

“Yeah.” John checked his sent messages and furrowed his brow at the cryptic message:

 

If owner has green ladder, arrest owner.

-SH

A quick online search brought up a blog run by this Sherlock person. ‘The Science of Deductive Reasoning’. Huh. There goes John’s boredom. He just hoped that this prat of a genius wouldn’t deduce or remember where he was nine nights ago. “Yeah, sure,” he breathed aloud.


	3. Exactly Where You'd Like Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is where I take more creative liberty than I should and say canon be damned, so this a forewarning.
> 
> John gets a job (again) and has no choice but to take it because this 'Consulting Detective' prat has blackmailed him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me for how awful this is!

John looked at the writing on his palm and leaned on his cane and back at the store, making sure he had the right address. The weather really wasn’t helping his leg at all and the cafe was so far from where he lived. He had to take the underground to get here and really wasn’t looking forward to lunch with the arrogant and dismissive Sherlock Holmes, though he wanted to know how he knew all about him.

 

Speedy’s was a quaint and delicious-smelling sandwich and pastry shop and John was rethinking his regret of not eating lunch before coming over. There wasn’t really anyone in the shop but the elder woman behind the counter, and he could smell fresh baked bread and stewing tomatoes and the only thing that prevented him from going up to the counter and ordering what looked to be a cheese and tomato sandwich on sourdough was the mess of black curls he saw in his peripheral vision. Holmes caught his gaze and beckoned him over.

 

“Hello, Mr. Holmes,” John begins.

 

“Sherlock, please. You came. I can’t say I’m not surprised, but the real test will be how long you stay,” Sherlock said in lieu of an actual greeting. “You still haven’t told me what exactly I’ll be doing.” The man smiled at John. “Yes I did. I said you’d be lending me a medical eye on a case I’m working.”

 

“Which means?”

 

Sherlock’s smile widened. “You’re a lot less stupid than the people I normally work with. Though I suppose someone who works -sorry, worked- in a club would know how to listen and pay attention to details.” John paled considerably, but Sherlock waved him off. “That’s not important, though, not to me anyway, so you’re fine. If you take the job. I really do need an assistant, someone who’s not half-daft and can keep up. Talking to myself has gotten me far too many stares from the people at the Yard.” John laughed quietly, a little huff. “You talk to yourself?” Holmes pouted.  _ Pouted! _ , John thought. “I make my observations aloud. And the skull used to draw more unwanted attention.”

 

“So I’m just a replacement for your skull?” Somehow that didn’t surprise the former Army doctor.

 

That made the corners of the other’s lips turn up. “Relax, you’ll do fine.” John laughed again when a man John recognised as the Detective Inspector Lestrade walked in and stopped at their table. “What is it, and where?” Sherlock said before the DI opened his mouth. “Brixton. Lauriston Gardens, a woman named Jennifer Wilson.” Holmes scoffed. “I asked  _ what _ , not  _ who _ ; you wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t something different.”

 

“You know how all of them have been owners?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Well this one’s a worker, will you come one now?”

 

Sherlock hummed, looking bored out of his skull, but the gleam in his storm-blue eyes was dangerous and exciting to the man sitting across from him. “Who’s on forensics?” Lestrade sighed. “Anderson,” which caused the other to scrunch his face. “You know he won’t work with me.” The DI rolled his eyes. “Yeah, he doesn’t want to be your assistant. Look, will you come with me or not?” There was a moment of pause. “Yeah, not in a police car. I’ll be right behind. So long as I can bring  _ him _ with me.” Lestrade looked over at John and then did a double take. “John Watson?” The doctor smiled weakly. “Hello again, Detective.” He threw up his hands and waved them both off before leaving the shop again. Once the bell above the door rang, Sherlock jumped out of the booth in utter glee.

 

“Four mysterious deaths of club owners and now a low worker! Oh, it’s Christmas!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. The woman behind the counter clicked her teeth at him. “Look at you, all happy and skipping about because some club members are dead. It’s not decent, Sherlock,” she tutted though smiling affectionately. John watched him, both amused and bemused at the spectacle. “Who cares about decent, Mrs Hudson, the game is on!” He whipped around dramatically to face John. “You’re a doctor. In fact an Army doctor.”

 

John stood as quickly as his cane allowed him to and drew himself to his full height. “Yes,” he answered. “Any good?” Sherlock continued. “Very good.”

 

“Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths.” John hummed in response. “Bit of trouble too, I’ll bet.”

 

“Yes, of course. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.” He tried not to think of his sister.

 

“Would you like to see some more?”

 

“God yes.”

 

And they were off.

 

# # # # # # # # #

 

“Okay, you’ve got questions,” Sherlock said, putting his mobile in his pocket after a large swath of silence between them. “Yeah, where are we going, exactly?”

“Crime scene, next?”

 

“Who are you? I mean, what do you do?” Sherlock smiles to himself. “What do you think?” He invited. John colours, anticipating to be made fun of. “Well...I’d say...private detective…” the doctor trailed off. “But?” Sherlock finished for him. “But the police don’t go to private detectives.” This earned him an approving smile from the other. “I’m a consulting detective. Only one in the world, I invented the job.”

 

“What does  _ that _ mean?”

 

“It means when the police are out of their depth -which is always- they consult me.”

 

“The police don’t consult amateurs,” John retorted before he could buffer himself. Sherlock doesn’t seem offended, just annoyed, thankfully. “When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’ You looked surprised.” John nodded. “Yes, how  _ did _ you know?” Sherlock smiled triumphantly. “I didn’t know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart’s, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp’s really bad when you walk but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand, like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq.”

 

“You said I had a therapist.” Sherlock huffed. “You’ve got a psychosomatic limp – of  _ course _ you’ve got a therapist. Then there’s your brother.”

 

“Hmm?” John hummed smugly. The detective held his hand out and John handed him his phone as he was talking. “I knew because of your phone. It’s expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, there’s a bug on it to keep the UG out of it and a very good one at that, but you’re looking for a flatshare – you wouldn’t waste money on this. It’s a gift, then. Scratches. Not one, many over time. It’s been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn’t treat his one luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner. Next bit’s easy. You know it already.”

 

John nodded, beginning to smile as he caught on to what the consulting detective was doing. “The engraving,” he said, thinking of the one on the back of the phone in Sherlock’s hand. “Harry Watson: clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man’s gadget.  _ Could _ be a cousin, but you’re a war hero who can’t find a place to live. Unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who’s Clara? Three kisses says it’s a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model’s only a few years old. Marriage in trouble then – a few years on he’s just given it away. If she’d left  _ him _ , he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left  _ her _ . He gave the phone to  _ you _ : that says he wants you to stay in touch. You’re looking for cheap accommodation, but you’re not going to your brother for help: that says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you  _ don’t _ like his drinking.”

 

“How can you _possibly_ know about the drinking?” John asked, forgetting momentarily what had happened to his sister. Sherlock smiled brightly, showing off. “Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone; never see a drunk’s without them. There you go, you see – you were right,” he said as he handed the phone back. John scoffed. “ _I_ was right? Right about what?”

 

“The police don’t consult amateurs.” The non-ameteur detective looked out the window, done with his deductions. “That ... was amazing.” Sherlock looked back at him in shock. “You...Do you think so?” John smiled and nodded. “Of  _ course _ it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.”

 

“That’s not what people normally say.”

 

“What do people normally say?”

 

“ ‘Piss off”!”

 

John giggled, causing Sherlock to do so as well.

 

# # # # # # # # #

 

“Did I get anything wrong?” John shrugged as he walked as fast as he could to keep up with Sherlock’s long strides. “Harry and me didn’t get on, never. Clara and Harry...split up...a year and a half ago; and Harry was a drinker.” Sherlock straightened up, looking smug. “Spot on, then. I didn’t expect to be right about everything.” It was the doctor’s turn to be smug. “And Harry’s short for Harriet.” This caused the detective to stop dead in his tracks and allowed John to walk a little taller and further than his long-legged companion. “Harry’s your sister.” John ignored him, bracing himself for the backlash of the illegality his sister being gay, and changed the subject. “Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?” Sherlock isn’t done being flustered, yet, however. “ _ Sister! _ ”

 

“No, seriously, what am I doing here?” John continued to be ignored as Sherlock starts walking again. “There’s always something,” he muttered, exasperated, and John was relieved that it was because he’d gotten something wrong that he was ticked off and not the illegal homosexuality. They walked at an even pace towards the police tape, where they’re met by a sour-faced young woman he recognised as Sergeant Donovan. “Hello, Freak,” she greeted, leaving a bad taste in the doctor’s mouth once more. Sherlock ignored her. “I’m here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I was invited,” he replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world. That didn’t sit well with the Sergeant, apparently. “ _ Why? _ ” The amount of sarcasm that dripped from his responses to Donovan made John smile, but only a little. “I think he wants me to take a look.” She sneered. “Well, you know what  _ I _ think, don’t you?”

 

“Always, Sally,” he retorted, lifting the police tape and ducking under it. “I even know you didn’t make it home last night.” The Sergeant shook her head in disbelief and looked at John. 

“I don’t ...Er, who’s this?”

 

“Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson,” is the immediate answer. John smiled the same charming smile he had when they’d first met. “Doctor Watson, this is Sally Donovan. An... _ old friend _ .” John nodded and outstretched his hand. “We’ve met. Good to see you, again, Sergeant.” She shook his hand and thumbed at the detective standing behind her. “What, did he follow you home? And how do  _ you _ get a  _ colleague _ ?!” she demanded.

 

“Offered me a job, actually,” John interjected, making Donovan speechless. “You coming, John?” Sherlock asked as he held the police tape up for the doctor, obviously pleased with John’s wit. Donovan rolled her eyes and spoke into her radio. “Freak’s here. Bringing him in.” John kept a sneer off his face as he followed her towards the building and a rat-faced man in a coverall. He blocked the way, and John could almost  _ hear _ the detective’s eye roll. “Ah, Anderson. Here we are again.”

 

Anderson scrunched his face in blatant distaste. “It’s a crime scene. I don’t want it contaminated, are we clear on that?” Sherlock smirked smugly and John felt like he was in for another treat of deductions. “Crystal. And is your wife away for long?”

 

“Oh don’t pretend you figured that out. Somebody must have told you.”

 

“Your deodorant told me that.”

 

“My deodorant?” Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up in feigned innocence and his mouth quirked into a sly smile. “It’s for men.” Anderson huffed. “Yeah, of  _ course _ it’s for men;  _ I’m _ wearing it!” The raven-curled man’s smile grew wider. “So is Sergeant Donovan. Ooh, and I think it just vapourised, may I go in?” But Anderson was having none of it. He jabbed an accusatory finger at him, fear in his eyes; infidelity was a misdemeanor in the New World. “Now look,” Anderson hissed, keeping his voice down. “Whatever you’re trying to imply-”

 

“I’m not implying anything, Anderson,” Holmes assured sincerely. But he couldn’t resist a final jab as he walked into the building. “I’m sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees,” he pointed out privately. Donovan looked at her knees and pulled her skirt down a little more while Anderson turned an embarrassed shade of red. “Gloves,” Sherlock pointed once they were in the building. “And maybe some shoe covers. Don’t bother with the rest, we won’t be here long.” The detective slipped the latex gloves on but forewent the shoe cover while John opted for both, not wanting to break any laws.

 

“Where is she?” Lestrade pointed up towards the upper levels. “And we’ll have to take the stairs since whoever killed the worker disabled the holopad.” John immediately wished his leg would function better. ‘A killer doesn’t deserve a new leg,’ the man at the VA had sneered. He shook his head and followed the other two up a winding staircase to the next floor. “You have two minutes, Sherlock, then I have to kick you out. You know the law.” Sherlock nodded once and pushed open the door.

 

“Some kids found her, ran right out to the nearest phone booth and called. They’re at home since it’s curfew and we couldn’t keep them here.” John had seen quite a bit in his time as an Army doctor, but it didn’t make the sight of a strangled stripper in a pair flamingo pink underwear any less troublesome. Her hands were casually laid by her head and her eyes were closed; if not for the cable cord wrapped around her neck and the word scratched into the floor, he’d have thought she was sleeping. Sherlock knelt down beside her, his face schooled into a cold mask. It’s only a few moments before the mask smiled slightly. “Got anything, then?” Lestrade asked. “Not much,” is Sherlock’s shrugging reply. “Doctor Watson, will you do a once over, please?”

 

The doctor takes a quick breath to prepare himself and nods once, sharply. As John tried kneeling and adjusting his leg to let him look at the body, Anderson commented from the door. “She’s Dutch. ‘Bos’: meaning ‘forest’. She could have been trying to tell-”

“Uh-huh, thanks,” Sherlock interrupted, nudging the door shut. “So is she Dutch?” Lestrade asked, gesturing at the word. “No, but she’s not from London. Or England, even. She was looking for work, trying to leave an abusive husband to support her kinder lover. This woman wasn’t killed by her husband, though. John, anything?” he asked as he knelt back next to the woman. “What am I doing here, Sherlock?” the other asked. “Helping me, of course. This should be more fun than singing in a lounge somewhere, right?”

 

“Fun? No one got killed singing. This woman is dead, Sherlock.”

 

“Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go further.”

 

John sighed and shook his head. “The cable wasn’t the cause of death since there aren’t defensive wounds anywhere and the only thing under her nails is wood from carving that word. Asphyxiation, though. She choked on her own vomit, and I can’t smell alcohol, so poison is my professional opinion.” The smile he earned from the man was dazzling. “Time’s up, what’ve you got?”

 

“Victim is in her late twenties, an exotic dancer for an illegal club judging by the bedazzled bikini bottom and alarming shade of pink on her eyelids. She traveled from America to London for work. Somehow she got swept up into dancing and...She...she saw something she shouldn’t have...did you find her camera piece?”

 

“Camera piece, yes. She was married, unhappy, abused, had a lover much younger than she was who was much kinder, though still rough. She was trying to leave; America wouldn’t have arrested her husband, but since she was cheating, she’d have been re-educated. She had to leave.”

 

“If you’re making this up…”

 

“Look!” he shouted, pointing at her. “Look at her ring. Ten years old, at least. Bangles, earrings, braclets, all of them cleaned except her ring. Bruises all over her body already healing, but the scratches on her arms are those made during rough sex. Someone who’d abuse her like this-” Sherlock gestured again. “-wouldn’t make soft scratches, they’d gouge out her skin.” John was awestruck. “That’s brilliant,” he breathed. Sherlock whipped around to face him, and John immediately apologised. Sherlock went back to his deductions. “She obviously a dancer, you said so yourself, and you can’t get a tan like this from London. So she moved here for money and to leave her husband. Call in with AUUG, ask about Jennifer Wilson and see if she’s missing and who else she knew, if they’re missing, too. Simple.”

“That’s fantastic,” John blurted, and then blushed a bright pink. “D’you know you do that aloud?” Sherlock asked, the corners of his cupid’s bow turning up in a small smile. “I’m sorry, I’ll stop.” The detective shook his head. “No! No, it’s...it’s fine.”

 

“Why d’you keep saying camera piece?” Lestrade asked. “Yes, where is it? And where is her recorder?. And find out who her boss is.” Lestrade shook his head. “She was writing ‘boss’?” The reply was a scathing one. “No,” he began sarcastically. “She was writing about a forest! Of  _ course _ she was writing ‘boss’. He must have killed her.”

 

“How do you know she had a camera piece?” The consulting detective pointed at the body again. “The makeup on her left eye is slightly smudged, and the eye itself,” he opened her eye and nodded, getting up again. “It’s slightly irritated, meaning she rubbed her eye since that’s where the camera piece was. She’s a battered woman and exotice dancer, of course she’d have one. Now where is it, what have you done with it?”

 

“There wasn’t a piece,” Lestrade admitted. Sherlock frowns at the DI. “Say that again.” Lestrade shrugged. “There wasn’t a piece. There never was. Not that we found.” Sherlock ran for the door, leaving John to try and get up on his own. “Damn my leg,” he muttered. “Did anyone find a piece? A camera piece, here in the building?” Sherlock shouted over the banister before rushing down the stairs again. “Sherlock, there was no piece!”

 

The raven-haired man stopped in his tracks and looked up at them. “Her camera piece, come on! Where is it, did she eat it?! Someone had to give her the poison and wrap the cable around her neck, and they took her camera piece because they knew they were on it! Unless…”

 

“She could have left it at her home?” John offered, though he knew he’d be wrong. “No, no, she wouldn’t. It’s too dangerous. She...oh. Oh!”

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Serial killers, always hard, until they make a mistake…” Lestrade started down the stairs after him. “We can’t wait again, he’ll kill someone else!”

 

“We’re done waiting!”

 

“What?” Sherlock looked torn between showing off some more and running away to do something else. “Pink!” he shouted in frustration before galavanting off again. John, forgotten on the second floor, began to make his way down slowly. Lestrade rushed past him, bumping into him and almost sending him over the railing, to go after Sherlock. After a few minutes, he finally made his way outside, but the detective is nowhere in sight. “He’s gone,” Donovan said. “Who, Holmes?” John asked, facing her. “Yeah, just took off. He’ll do that; the DI gave him a permit to wander after curfew. I’ll write one up, if you need me to, ‘cause I don’t think he’s coming back.” John nodded and followed her back inside, where she wrote him a temporary permit. “I’ll have someone who’s not doing much give you a lift home, okay?”

 

“Yes, thank you.”

 

“You’re not a friend, are you?”

 

“Sorry?” Donovan continued to fill out the form. “He doesn’t do friends, so who are you?” John shrugged. “I’m...I’m nobody, barely met him and I just need a job.” The Sergeant nodded and paused in her writing. “Bit of advice then? Stay away from him.” John’s brow furrowed, and his hand tightened around his cane automatically. “Why?”

 

“You know why he’s here? He doesn’t get paid or anything. He likes it, gets off on it. The weirder, the better. And you know something? One day, solving it won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing ‘round a body, and Sherlock Holmes’ll be the one who put it there.” She flipped the form over. “Why would he do that?” She smiled bitterly. “Because he’s a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored. Here’s your permit, Doctor Watson. Have a nice night, and stay away from Sherlock Holmes.” She walked up the stairs and away from John, pointing at a fresh-looking cadet and then pointing at him, saying something. She smiled at John. “I’m Billie Sars and I’m supposed to give you a ride home.”

 

# # # # # # # # #

 

A phone rings in its booth, scaring John as he went to get in with Billie. “Hello?” The stranger on the other end didn’t reply right away, and when he did, it was to point out the camera on the building. “Do you see it?”

 

“Who the hell is this?” He was ignored. “Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?” John frowned. “Yeah, I see it.”

 

“Good. Watch.” The camera moved to point at a window gone dark ages ago. “There’s another across the street-” That one moved, too. “And finally, the one on the street.” The camera moved to watch something inconsequential as well. “How are you doing this?” John finally asked. A sleek black car pulled up and Billie opened the door to it. “Get in the car, Doctor.” John hung up and huffed a laugh. “And I take it your name isn’t Billie, is it?” The woman only smiled.


End file.
